That afternoon, I reach the shelter. The stone structure lies empty except for one familiar face: Woody!

Woody sits on a camp chair, leaning back against the stone wall, his hood pulled up over his graying hair. On this cold day, after taking a zero day, I thought all the southbound hikers passed me! I offer him the granola bars I'd received earlier.

Pinefield Hut

​"Met AT Wheeler on the trail," he tells me. "'Don't see many white beards out here,' he said. He wanted to ascertain that he was the oldest one on the trail - he's got a good ten years on me."

As dusk draws near, we gather firewood to pile into the fire ring. Woody builds a nest of twigs below the logs. As he lights them, he begins singing softly in his low voice:

"Holly logs will burn like waxYou could burn them greenElm logs burn like smouldering flaxWith no flame to be seenBeech logs for winter time..."

Woody relaxing in Pinefield Hut

"Well, my last name is Woodson, and all through school my friends all called me Woody."​- Woody, '16 flip-flop thru hiker